Dorsey reached down and took a penknife from the tray in front of Marsden, and cut the twine, and the sandwich fell apart.
“Ah!” said Dorsey.
It was a large linen envelope, heavily sealed in three places, and Dorsey studied the seals closely before looking over at Hornblower.
“Sir,” said Dorsey. “You have brought us something valuable. Very valuable, I should say, sir. This is the first of its kind to come into our possession.”
He handed it to Marsden, and tapped the seals with his finger.
“Those are the seals of this newfangled Empire of Bonaparte’s, sir,” he said. “Three good specimens.”
It was only a few months before, as Hornblower realized, that Bonaparte had proclaimed himself Emperor and the Republican Consulate had given place to the Empire. When Marsden permitted him to look closely, he could see the imperial eagle with its thunderbolt, but to his mind not quite as dignified a bird as it might be, for the feathers that sheathed its legs offered a grotesque impression of trousers.
“I would like to open this carefully, sir,” said Dorsey.
“Very well. You may go and attend to it.”
Fate hung in the balance for Hornblower at that moment; somehow Hornblower was aware of it, with uneasy premonition, while Marsden kept his cold eyes fixed on his face, apparently as a preliminary to dismissing him.
Later in his life — even within a month or two — Hornblower could look back in perspective at this moment as one in which his destiny was diverted in one direction instead of in another, dependent on a single minute’s difference in timing. He was reminded, when he looked back, of the occasions when musket balls had missed him by no more than a foot or so; the smallest, microscopic correction of aim on the part of the marksman would have laid Hornblower lifeless, his career at an end. Similarly at this moment a few seconds’ delay along the telegraph route, a minute’s dilatoriness on the part of a messenger, and Hornblower’s life would have followed a different path.
For the door at the end of the room opened abruptly and another elegant gentleman came striding in. He was some years younger than Marsden, and dressed soberly but in the very height of fashion, his lightly starched collar reaching to his ears, and a white waistcoat picked out with black calling unobtrusive attention to the slenderness of his waist. Marsden looked round with some annoyance at this intrusion, but restrained himself when he saw who the intruder was, especially when he saw a sheet of paper fluttering in his hand.
“Villeneuve’s in Ferrol,” said the newcomer. “This has just come by telegraph. Calder fought him off Finisterre and was given the slip.”
Marsden took the dispatch and read it with care.
“This will be for His Lordship,” he said, calmly, rising with deliberation from his chair. Even then he did not noticeably hurry. “Mr Barrow, this is Captain Hornblower. You had better hear about his recent acquisition.”
Marsden went out through a hardly perceptible door behind him, bearing news of the most vital, desperate importance. Villeneuve had more than twenty ships of the line, French and Spanish — ships which could cover Bonaparte’s crossing of the Channel — and he had been lost to sight for the last three weeks since Nelson had pursued him to the West Indies. Calder had been stationed off Finisterre to intercept and destroy him and had apparently failed in his mission.
“What is this acquisition, Captain?” asked Barrow, the simple question breaking into Hornblower’s train of thought like a pistol shot.
“Only a dispatch from Bonaparte, sir,” he said. He used the ‘sir’ deliberately, despite his confusion — Barrow was after all the Second Secretary, and his name was nearly as well known as Marsden’s.
“But that may be of vital importance, Captain. What was the purport of it?”
“It is being opened at the present moment, sir. Mr Dorsey is attending to that.”
“I see. Dorsey in forty years in this office has become accustomed to handling captured documents. It is his particular department.”
“I fancied so, sir.”
There was a moment’s pause, while Hornblower braced himself to make the request that was clamouring inside him for release.
“What about this news, sir? What about Villeneuve? Could you tell me, sir?”
“No harm in your knowing,” said Barrow. “A Gazette will have to be issued as soon as it can be arranged. Calder met Villeneuve off Finisterre. He was in action with him for the best part of two days — it was thick weather — and then they seem to have parted.”
“No prizes, sir?”
“Calder seems to have taken a couple of Spaniards.”
Two fleets, each of twenty ships or more, had fought for two days with no more result than that. England would be furious — for that matter England might be in very serious peril. The French had probably employed their usual evasive tactics, edging down to leeward with their broad sides fully in action while the British tried to close and paid the price for the attempt.
“And Villeneuve broke through into Ferrol, sir?”
“Yes.”
“That’s a difficult place to watch,” commented Hornblower.
“Do you know Ferrol?” demanded Barrow, sharply.
“Fairly well, sir.”
“How?”
